


Drinks in the Dark

by storiesinthedark



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Case Fic, Comfort Sex, Covert Operation, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gun Violence, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Terrorism, Karaoke, Light Bondage, M/M, Murder, Original Character Death(s), Prague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:22:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1229713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesinthedark/pseuds/storiesinthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an attempt to thwart an attack on a British official, Mycroft enlists Sherlock's help to retrieve a known UK threat. But when plans go awry, the implications have more affects than anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drinks in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HeartOfTheMirror](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartOfTheMirror/gifts).



> Based on her prompt for the Johnlock Challenges Valentine's Day exchange.

The rain pooled on the windscreen of the black Jaguar for several minutes before the wipers moved it. It wasn’t raining hard enough to place them on automatic, so Sherlock settled for manually hitting the wipers when he could no longer see. The head lamps of the other cars coming from the opposite direction illuminated more of the pitch black highway that led into the city center. An old American rock song played on the radio, almost inaudible except for the noticeable chorus that would occasionally rear its head.

John stared out the window at the passing trees and watched as the old Soviet housing complexes, the concrete jungles, on the outskirts of Prague welcomed them. Sherlock continued to concentrate on the rain on the windscreen, keeping his eyes on the road, a smile threatening to appear on his lips.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” John started, turning his head to look at Sherlock with a grin on his face.

“What is?”

John chuckled. “Don’t worry about it.” He returned his gaze out the window.

They continued the drive in silence and within fifteen minutes pulled up in front of their hotel. The old golden building towered over them, recalling the history of the city. They got out of the car and Sherlock grabbed their bags from the boot, handing them to John. He nodded toward the doorway and shut the boot.

“I’ll meet you after I park,” Sherlock said.

“I’ll just wait here,” John replied.

“Okay,” Sherlock smiled, sliding back into the driver’s seat.

Once the car was parked in the nearby car park, Sherlock rejoined John outside of the hotel and then they headed into the lobby to check in.

“How can I help you?” the young woman behind the desk asked, moving her short brown hair behind her left ear. Her English was smooth, but tinged with the native Czech.

“Yes, I believe we have a reservation under--” John began as he approached the desk.

**New haircut. Uncertain of appearance. Nervous. Size 10. Wants to be a chef. Recently married.**

Sherlock saw the woman’s story appear before his eyes. This would be easier than he thought. No need to overly complicate the cover story. He smirked and walked toward the desk, bumping John out of the way as he approached.

“Yes, we do have a booking,” Sherlock said, interrupting John mid-sentence. “My partner and I are on our honeymoon. It should be under Cogswell.”

John stared at Sherlock, his eyebrows furrowing and his eyes searching the man for an explanation. Sherlock gave him a little nod and then returned his attention to the woman.

“Ah, yes. Very lovely. Might I see your passport please?”

Sherlock reached into his pocket and produced his passport.

“Very good. Here it is. You’re in one of our riverside rooms,” she said, typing rapidly into the computer.”Pavel can take your luggage for you and here are all of your documents. Have a pleasant stay and enjoy your honeymoon."

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, smiling.  

She winked at John as they turned and headed toward the lift. When the doors opened, they got in quickly, but they didn’t speak before the doors shut.

John pursued his lips and then ran his tongue over them. “Care to explain what that was all about?”

“What?” Sherlock turned his head smoothly to look at John.

“The honeymoon. The expensive car at the airport. I’m your partner? The false name? All that.”

Sherlock took an audible breath. “Oh yes. Mycroft arranged it. The man we are tracking down, Sergei Potyomokin, his next target was Terrance Cogswell, a colleague of Mycroft’s. He also holds a minor position in the British government.

“Mycroft emailed while we were in Vienna and sent over the documents needed to continue tracking down Sergei.”

John bit his lip and looked down at the floor before returning his gaze to Sherlock. “Are we pretending at being married to act as bait for a known terrorist and protect a British official?”

Sherlock smirked.

John stiffened and straightened, hands falling to his side. “Of course we are.”

He took a deep breath and then reached out, taking Sherlock’s hand and lacing his fingers with his own. Sherlock glanced down at their joined hands and then returned his gaze directly ahead, his expression remaining neutral.

The lift arrived at the third floor and opened into an eggshell-colored hallway. They turned the corner and arrived at the entrance to their room. The door was white and heavy, old in style, but with a fresh coat of paint.

Sherlock pushed open the door to reveal a large open room with a bed, some old wooden dressers and a small sitting area, complete with two arm chairs and a small couch. The gold colouring of the room displayed in the curtains and various fabrics throughout the room reflected the rich atmosphere of the city itself.

“So, what’s the plan?” John said, making his home in one of the gold armchairs that sat across from the equally-gold sofa in the sitting room.

“Hmm?”

Sherlock stood at the window, parting the curtains only slightly as he did on Baker Street, and  looked out across the river at the clay red rooftops of the city. John turned to watch him.

“You have got a plan, don’t you?”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He continued observing out the window. The people walked about the street below, unaware of the criminals that lurked in the city. He watched as several tourists stopped to take several pictures that would be overexposed of the street signs or of each other.

**Boring.**

He sighed and then walked toward the sofa before throwing himself on it, his feet dangling over the edge as he laid there.

“I’m going to take that as a no. Sherlock, I don’t know what you’re thinking...no, right...you’re not thinking anything. How are we supposed to track down and bring back one of the most networked terrorists in all of Europe to your brother?”

“John, I do have a plan.”

John leaned back in the armchair and crossed his legs. “Would you care to enlighten me then? Because I would really appreciate it if I knew the bloody plan for once.”

Sherlock sat up, swinging his feet to the floor, nearly hitting the small coffee table in the process. He steepled his fingers under his chin and stared at John, not blinking.

“He’s going to be out at a bar called Friends and we are going to be there as well.”

“How exactly do you know he’ll be there?”

“Mycroft has been--”

“Right. Your brother.” John rolled his eyes and then pushed himself up from the chair.

He picked his suitcase up and walked over the bed, throwing it onto the duvet with a thump.

“What should I be wearing then?” he called.

Sherlock turned his head toward John and smirked.

\-----

“When you said bar, I didn’t think you meant gay bar,” John attempted to shout over the music from the DJ and woman on stage with the microphone. He ran his fingers up and down his pint. It was Tuesday, which according to the almost-hidden sign in front of the bar, meant Karaoke night.

The staircase leading down to the bar was entirely made of stone and the walls were painted bright red with posters every now and again indicating what new entertainment could be found at the bar on a given night. The room itself mimicked the staircase with brightly coloured walls, mainly pink and purple, and flows of sheer fabric rippling across the rounded ceiling in a rainbow of colours. It was small and secluded, obviously not meant for large amount of people, but welcoming.

Sherlock had found a table across the room from the stairs, in an almost-secluded little alcove to the right side of the stage that had been set-up for karaoke. The bar was across from the stage, and several patrons were seated on stools watching the singers.

“Problem?”

John sighed. “No. I just...Nevermind.”

The song, a Czech rendition of “These Boots Are Made for Walking,” ended and the small crowd that was gathered around the bar with drinks clapped and cheered. The woman on the stage took a quick bow and jumped off, scurrying back to her friends.

Sherlock turned his attention to John, leaning with both arms on the table.

“The man over in the corner with the blond boy next to him. See him?”

“Yes, why?”

“Sergei Potyomokin. The most connected man in Europe at the moment. The boy to his left is Matteo Borrello. He’s highly connected with the Italians and also Sergei’s most trusted friend. Rumours say the two are lovers. I confirm that they are. The man next to Matteo is Lukas Konig, who has connections to the Germans. I’m actually unsure as to what Konig is doing here with the other two.  ”

“And what about the little blonde woman sitting with them?” John asked, briefly peering over his shoulder to take a look at the group.

Sherlock stared at the woman, reading her.

**Mid-twenties. Unmarried. Foreign, but local. Size 14. Art instructor.**

“She’s just a bystander. She has no relevance for the men at that table. Unimportant.” He broke his concentration on her and turned his attention on John.

The music began playing again, as a red-haired woman took the stage. She grinned out at the few people who sat gathered at the bar and began tapping her feet to the music when it began, the strong beats pulsing through the air and migrating their way to the bodies of everyone in the room.

Sherlock leaned back and rolled his eyes. He picked up his glass and took a drink from it before placing it back on the table. John watched and licked his lips. Then, he leaned across the table so that his face was close to Sherlock’s. He kissed Sherlock on the cheek and smiled slightly.

“So, what’s the plan?” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear, hoping that the kiss would make their cover a bit more convincing.

Sherlock glanced at him from the side of his eye and then turned his head slightly, landing a kiss on John’s cheek.

“We’re going--” he stopped mid-sentence, as he spotted the gentlemen in question walking toward them. “We may have a bigger problem.”

“What?” John pulled away from Sherlock, looking over his shoulder to confirm Sherlock’s observation and then poured himself back into his chair.

“Mister Holmes,” Potyomokin said, pulling out the chair next to John and sitting. He folded his hands on the table and grinned as Matteo slid into the chair next to Sherlock’s. “I know why you’re here. Save the cover story and let’s just talk business.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Sherlock said, eyes focused on John. “My job is clear. Bring you back to London by whatever means necessary.”

“That will be a bit difficult, however, if you are no longer alive,” Potyomokin said, his grin growing toothy and more wicked looking by the second.

Sherlock felt the intrusion of a gun against his lower back. He remained calm and turned his attention fully to Potyomokin.

“I propose perhaps something a little different. You pretend you never saw me here and I will instead spare your life.”

John stared at Sherlock, fighting the urge to render Potyomokin unconscious. He picked up his pint and took a small sip from it, the liquid swirling in the glass as it landed upon the table perhaps a bit harder than John intended.

“No,” Sherlock responded.

Sherlock stood, only briefly making eye contact with John, a look between them that said ‘move’, before he turned the table over. John’s reflexes kicked in immediately as he moved away just before the table hit the ground. Sherlock whirled around and grabbed the gun from Matteo’s hand. He knocked him over the back of the head with it, and Matteo collapsed to the ground in a heap. The girl singing let out a blood curdling scream, dropping the microphone and running toward her friends in the corner of the room who were huddling together.

John turned to face Sergei and grabbed his wrist, twisting it up behind his back and causing him to cry out in pain. He wrapped his foot around his ankle, pulling his foot underneath and forcing Sergei to his knees. He reached for his gun from his waistband but found it missing.

“Looking for this?” a voice behind John said. His own gun pressed into the back of John’s head and he stilled.

Sergei grinned. “I suggest you let me go, Mister Holmes. Mister Konig has no problem with killing Doctor Watson, and we know you wouldn’t want that.”

Sherlock turned to face them, bringing the gun to rest at his side. “No. We wouldn’t want that.” He looked at John, a sense of resignation growing in his eyes. Then a light came into them and Sherlock smirked.

“How about,” he began, “a life for a life. I’ve spared Mister Borrello-- you can only do the same for John. Or I can very easily reverse that decision and place bullet through his frontal lobe” Sherlock knelt down next to Matteo, placing the gun next his temple.

Sergei didn’t respond for a moment, but then looked over toward Sherlock. “Why would I do that Mister Holmes. He is nothing more than an associate. One of many.”

“No, he’s much more than that to you. The thinning of your shirt sleeve says otherwise.”

“So what if he is?”

“I’m not above murder. I’ve taken apart bigger criminal networks than this one. But, if you kill John, I most certainly will kill Mister Borello and I will leave you to suffer at the hands of the British government. I will not give you the same courtesy of death.”

Sergei looked between John and Matteo and then made eye contact with Sherlock once again. “Okay.”

He muttered something briefly in Russian and Lukas pulled the gun away from John’s head. John released Sergei’s arm and moved swiftly to stand next to Sherlock, while Sergei moved to his feet again.

The air in the bar stood still, unmoving as patrons crowded together and watched the current standoff with bated breath.

“I’m afraid, Mister Holmes, I can tell you will not be cooperative and thus you leave me no choice.”

In one swift movement, Sergei aimed the gun at John’s head and smoothly pulled the trigger. Sherlock and John dropped to the floor, barely avoiding being hit.

The bullet hit the stone wall and the other patrons in the bar ducked for cover, letting out little yelps and whimpers.

Sergei stared at Sherlock, as he tried to dust himself off and return to standing. He straightened, his wicked grin returning. “Doctor Watson isn’t your only weakness Mister Holmes, whether you admit to it or not. And we can’t have any witnesses.”

He turned toward the other patrons in the bar and opened fire, Lukas doing the same.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide as he watched blood trickled down the faces of the various men and women who had wandered into the bar, unknowing of the events about to unfold. He had never meant for the plan to go like this. This was wrong. The stories of their lives flashed before Sherlock’s eyes:

**Mother of four. Having an affair. College professor. Study abroad student. Receptionist. Cafe barista. Piano tuner. Shop clerk. Traffic violations. Functioning alcoholic.**

His breathing increased as the list went on as he surveyed the dead, and he gripped the gun tighter in his hand. He aimed the gun at Sergei and depressed the trigger in one smooth motion. Sergei had turned and headed toward the stairs to exit, but he couldn’t outrun the bullet. It grazed his shoulder and found its final resting place in the far wall of the bar. Sherlock fired a second shot but missed again, this time the bullet embedding itself in the staircase just as Sergei and Lukas made their way out of the bar.

\-----

The air of the hotel room felt cold as Sherlock entered, hands shoved in his pockets and collar turned up. John followed not far behind.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” John repeated.

“How was it not my fault, John?” Sherlock yelled, removing his coat and throwing it to the floor. “They’re dead!”

“You’re not the one who killed them!”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes on John. Then, he turned on his heel and marched into the bedroom. John stared at the entryway to the bedroom for a long moment, unsure of what exactly to do. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and then followed Sherlock’s path.

He cleared his throat to announce his presence.

“Go away. There is nothing you can do to make this any easier.”  Sherlock pulled the duvet from the bed around him into a tighter bundle.

John licked his lips and approached carefully. He placed one knee on the bed and hoisted himself up to kneel close to the edge, Sherlock’s back still to him. He stroked a hand down his back, feeling the tension well up under Sherlock’s skin.

“It’s not your fault. You can’t blame yourself for this.”

Sherlock rolled over and met John’s eyes with a sharp stare. John removed his hand from Sherlock. “I know this is not my fault. I am not the one who fired the shots. I know this very well.”

“Well, you’re acting as if you feel this is your fault.” John paused briefly to lick his lips before continuing.

“Sherlock,” he reached out and took his hand. He ran little circles over the back of his hand with his thumb. “You need to stop looking for answers. Yes, I can tell that’s what you’re doing. You didn’t kill them. I didn’t kill them.”

“They were innocent, John.”

“This sounds remarkably strange coming from you. You didn’t care about the people that Moriarty strapped bombs to, you were only interested in the game.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and began to pull his hand away, but John wouldn’t let go. He smiled slightly.

“If you don’t want to talk about it--”

Sherlock pulled John down to him, wrapping his arms around his waist and snuggling up behind him. His nose pressed against the back of John’s neck.

“It’s different now.”

John rolled over and looked at Sherlock, the smile remaining on his face. Sherlock nudged him closer and leaned his forehead into John’s.

“It’s different now.”

John ran a hand down Sherlock’s face, Sherlock leaning slightly and unconsciously into the touch. “It’s okay.”

Sherlock smiled and pulled John closer, closing his eyes and pressing his lips to John’s. John tensed for a moment and then relaxed into the kiss. He brought his hand to Sherlock’s hair and ran it through the curls.

They kissed for what felt like a frozen moment in time before Sherlock pulled away, looking at John. John smiled and pulled Sherlock in for another kiss, this one lasting less time, but more forceful.

He replaced his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and tugged slightly, eliciting a gentle moan. Sherlock closed his eyes and wrapped his arms tighter around John, his hand moving to the man’s arse. They released the kiss and quickly caught their breath.

John grabbed Sherlock’s arms, removing them from his arse and placed them over Sherlock’s head and then rolled him onto his back. He straddled Sherlock’s body and stared down at the man underneath of him. He bent down and pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Breathless, Sherlock stared back. John licked his lips.

“What are we doing, Sherlock?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Something. Anything.”

Sherlock’s eyes never left John. John released Sherlock’s hands and began to unbuckle his own belt. Once he had it removed, he grabbed both of Sherlock’s hands again and loosely wrapped his belt around them, tying them together above Sherlock’s head. He ran his hands down Sherlock’s outstretched arms and down his chest and abdomen, until he reached Sherlock’s trousers.

He moved back slightly, settling his position more over Sherlock’s knees and then ran his hand over Sherlock’s trousers, feeling the strain of Sherlock’s cock against the fabric. He smirked slightly, and then reached for Sherlock’s belt and began unbuckling it.

It took a little help from Sherlock, but John soon had the belt removed and Sherlock’s trousers unbuttoned, unzipped and pulled slightly down around Sherlock’s hips. He grabbed Sherlock’s cock through his pants and began lightly tugging on it, moving his hand from the base of Sherlock's cock toward the top before returning to the base and repeating the process. Sherlock threw his head back and thrust into the touch, letting out small moans as John continued in the motion.

"John," Sherlock managed to get out as John continued.

He moved his still-bound hands down in front of him and reached for John's waist, sitting up as much as he could to accomplish the task. He grabbed at the button to John’s trousers and pulled them open and immediately unzipped them as well.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

"I know what it looks like. Why?"

"Because I need to clear my head."

John pressed his lips together and nodded, his hands stopping for a brief moment before resuming. "Okay."

Sherlock pressed his hand against John’s cock through his pants, feeling it stir to life even more from the contact. John hummed and increased the speed of his hand.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, the word lingering on his lips longer than he intended.

John stopped his hands and bent down to place another kiss to Sherlock's lips. He pulled back and looked into Sherlock’s eyes.

“What do you want?”

Sherlock gazed back at John, not speaking a word.

**Unable to read wants and desires. Confused. Worried.**

“You.”

“Me? What?”

“You, John. I want you. In whatever way you’ll have me.”

John smiled and moved his hands back to Sherlock’s cock, long strokes up and down. Sherlock threw his head back, forcing his eyes to stay open. His mind pushed out other thoughts and focused solely on the sensation of John’s hand moving against his cock.

He involuntarily thrust up into John’s hand and moaned low in his throat. He looked up at John to see the man straddling his lap, eyes shut, and hand continuing to stroke him at a pleasant pace. He placed his hand on John’s and began to speed up the motion. He released John’s hand after finding an acceptable new pace, his vision becoming blurred and his mind focusing on one single thing: John Watson.

“John...” Sherlock gasped only a few moments later.

Ribbons of white flowed over John's hand as Sherlock tensed and thrust up, riding out the waves of pleasure that washed over him. He arched his back, pushing himself into John’s hand once again before falling back to the bed as if the bones had been taken from his body. 

He shuddered once more and then rolled on to his side, burying his face in the sheets.

“John…” he breathed out.

John smirked and ran his clean hand through Sherlock’s hair. He reached over to the bedside table and grabbed a tissue to clean his hand off. Then he moved closer behind Sherlock, snuggling up and wrapping his arms around him, his half-hard cock pressed against Sherlock’s lower back.

Sherlock took a deep breath and rolled over to face John. He searched his face.

**Unsatisfied sexually. Relaxed. Worried.**

Sherlock pressed his lips together and gently pushed John onto his back. He took his hand and ran it up the length of John’s cock before swirling his palm around the head and then sliding it back down.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” John tried to sit up, only to be pushed back down.

“If you want me to stop, all you have to do is ask.” Sherlock grinned and continued.

John licked his lips, not saying another word. He let out a slight whimper as Sherlock sped up the pace, and he clutched the sheets, his eyes squeezing shut.

Sherlock smiled as he continued to vary the speed and pressure he applied. He was soon rewarded for his experimentation as John’s body seized and twisted, spilling forth over Sherlock’s hand.

John breathed heavily for a few moment, staring at the ceiling. Sherlock sat up and reached for the tissues, wiping off his hand and dropping the tissue into the the garbage.

“What was that?” John asked, breathless.

“What was what?”

“That? I--”

“I wanted to--” Sherlock began as John grabbed him and pulled him into a kiss.

The kiss was long and forceful, the two of them grappling for control of the other and neither giving in. Sherlock pulled back and looked at John, a smile creeping at the edges of his mouth. He nuzzled his head into John’s neck and breathed deep.

“Thank you,” he said, wrapping his arms around John and letting himself drift off to sleep for the first time in several nights.

\-----

John stretched his arms over his head and blinked slowly before his eyes came to focus on the room around him. He took a deep breath and sat up, trying to put all of the pieces from the night before in place.

“Right,” he murmured to himself. “Prague. Chasing the terrorist with Sherlock.”

He got up and wandered over to the small sitting area in the room.

Sherlock sat on one of the gold fabric-covered chairs, his knees tucked up to his chin with his dressing gown pulled around the rest of his body.

“Good morning,” John said, coming to take the chair opposite Sherlock.

“What’s so good about it?” He turned his head and narrowed his eyes on John.

“It’s just an expression, Sherlock.”

“Terrible one if you ask me.”

John looked over at Sherlock and stared. “So, what’s the plan today? Are we tracking Sergei’s next move or--”

“We’re heading back London. Mycroft phoned this morning. The case is being taken over by MI6.” He continued to stare ahead, avoiding eye contact with John.

“Right. I’ll go pack.” He pressed his lips together and then pushed himself up from chair, moving back toward the bedroom.

\-----

As the flight landed in Heathrow, Sherlock remained silent, just as he had for the entirety of the flight from Prague. He stared out the window, watching as the scenery grew larger and eventually slowed to a stop. John stared down at his hands and licked his lips. He turned and stared at Sherlock, wanting to say something, but instead he returned his attention back to his hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the steward said over the intercom, “I hope you had a pleasant flight this morning. The local time here in London is nine AM. Please wait for the captain to turn off the fasten seat belt sign before removing your seat belt. We should have you off the plane shortly. Thank you.”

“Sherlock,” John nudged him gently.

Sherlock turned his attention to John. The stare was cold and calculating, and John could feel Sherlock’s annoyance. He turned up the collar on his coat and crossed his arms.

John licked his lips. “Sherlock--”

“Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned off the seat belt sign. You may now gather your belongings and we will begin the departure process.” John closed his eyes and sighed, disappointed at the interruption.

Sherlock stood up and pulled John up with him as well. Then he nudged John into the aisle. He retrieved their bags from the overhead bin and followed the queue of people exiting the plane, John not far behind looking downtrodden.

\-----

The office was slightly cooler than the rest of the building, but none of its current occupants seemed to notice. Mycroft sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair slightly, his hands folded across his stomach. He grinned as he watched Sherlock pace back and forth across the room, hands tucked in his pockets, muttering about the botched case. John sat in the chair opposite Mycroft, his back straight, feet flat on the floor and hands folded on his lap.

“Sherlock!” John yelled as Sherlock continued to pace. “Do us all a favour and shut up! The sooner we finish this, the sooner we can leave.”

Sherlock stopped and turned to stare at John. He said nothing, but walked to the other chair that sat opposite Mycroft’s desk and sat down, flipping his coat out from under him with a flourish.

Mycroft leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. “Thank you, John. I only have one more question and then you may leave.”

“All right,” John said, staring directly at Mycroft.

“They found the body of Sergei Potyomokin just outside of the bar with a bullet through his left temple. Any idea how it got there?”

Sherlock glanced at John from the corner of his eye, his expression remaining neutral. He took a breath and raised his chin slightly. John turned to look at Sherlock and then returned his attention to Mycroft.

“That’s what I thought,” Mycroft smirked. “You may go.”

They all rose from their chairs, John extending his hand for Mycroft to shake, though the acknowledgement never came. He smirked, turned on his heel and left through the oddly out-of-place steel door that concealed Mycroft’s office. Sherlock watched him as he went, not moving from where he stood in front of Mycroft’s desk.

“Brother mine --” Mycroft started.

“I know,” Sherlock replied.

“Very well,” Mycroft sighed. “I suggest talking with him before this goes any further.”

“It is none of your concern, Mycroft,” Sherlock growled. He flipped his collar up and left, coat billowing behind him.

\-----

“Will you at least talk to me?” John shouted after Sherlock, taking the stairs to his flat two at a time.

“No, John. I will not. I know how this will end and I want no part in it,” Sherlock said, his voice forceful and unwavering as he pulled off his coat, hung it on the hook in the hallway and then pushed open the door to the flat.

To the casual observer, Sherlock would have seemed sincere, but for John, the tone unsettled him. He took a deep breath and followed Sherlock, who had made a direct line toward his bedroom and had shut the door with a loud bang behind him. John stood outside of the closed door and straightened himself to a military stance. He reached for the doorknob and pushed it open.

“Sherlock Holmes, you will listen to me,” he said, his voice low and stern.

He stood in the doorway, watching Sherlock stare out the window. He watched as Sherlock deliberately kept his back to John, but held his ground.

“John, I do not have to listen to anything you have to say. I suggest you leave before this situation becomes more problematic than it already has.”

“No. No, Sherlock. You don’t get to make the decision on this by yourself. This affects both of us.”

“John--”

Sherlock turned around to find John standing mere inches from him. He hadn’t even heard him move from the doorway. Sherlock stared at him, straightening to make himself appear taller. John looked up and their eyes met for long minutes, challenging one another and neither refusing to back down, before John moved.

He placed his hands on both sides of Sherlock’s face and pulled down until they were face-to-face, and then he kissed him hard, lips and teeth mashing together in a messy way. He moved his hands to the back of Sherlock’s head and Sherlock moved his hands to John’s hair, pulling gently. John hummed and leaned into the touch, careful not to break the connection between them.

Sherlock slipped his tongue into John’s mouth, letting it explore. Finally, the two parted, staring at each other and holding each other close.

“Sherlock,” John began. “Why are you shutting me out?”

Sherlock looked away, not wanting to see the concern he knew would resonate in John’s eyes. He focused on the carpet of his bedroom, how the intricate pattern on the floor at times looked like blood spatter from various cases. John waited patiently for an answer. He didn’t speak another word and held Sherlock close. Once Sherlock’s mind had settled, the patterns on the carpet becoming mundane, he spoke.

“It’s because you’re going to leave me,” Sherlock said, his hands moving and settling themselves loosely on John’s arms.

“What?”

“Don’t play stupid, John. You know exactly what I mean. You’ve got Mary and no matter what we did together last night, you’ll still choose her over me because she’s your wife. Not that I blame you. It is the socially acceptable thing to do….I can’t attach myself to you in that way. Not anymore.” He turned to face John, his eyes slightly damp.

“Sherlock,” John began, running a hand through Sherlock’s hair, “you mean so much to me. You’re my best friend. I would never choose Mary over you. You’re both important.”

“Then what are we going to do about the new aspect our relationship has acquired?”

“We can continue it, if you want. We don’t have to, though.”

“Yes, John. I want to…but what about Mary?”

\-----

_Mary sat on the bed, her legs tucked up underneath of her with her laptop. She smirked and leaned her elbows on her knees, folding her hands and resting her chin on them. She licked her lips and a smile graced her face as she read the words on her screen._

_A light knock on the door and John pushed the door open, leaning against the doorway. He crossed his arms over his chest._

_“How are things, love?” he asked._

_“Fine. Just working on something. Nothing important.” She turned to face him, slightly shutting the laptop lid._

_He smiled and unfolded his arms, coming to sit next to her on the bed._

_“Sherlock just rang. Got a case that I’m needed for.”_

_“I heard. Off to Vienna to track down a terrorist?”_

_“Yes. You’ll be all right if I’m out of town for a few days?”_

_“I don’t see why not,” she said, as John placed a strand of errant hair behind her ear. She smiled.  “You’ll be back soon enough.”_

_“Yeah. That’s the plan, but as you know, a plan with Sherlock is only temporary.”_

_“Oh I know,”  she said, fondly._

_John stood up from the bed and crossed the room to the dresser. He opened the drawer and began pulling out clothes and lying them on the bed. Several pairs of socks, some pants and a few jumpers in various colours._

_“Make sure to pack the oatmeal jumper,” she said, watching as John continued to place clothing on the bed. “I love that one on you.” She grinned, opening the lid of her laptop and beginning to type again._

\-----

“I don’t think she’ll mind,” John said, moving toward Sherlock and pressing their lips together once more, this time in a light and gentle kiss.  

\-----

_‘No,’ Mary thought to herself. ‘She wouldn’t mind at all.’_

**Author's Note:**

> This fic wouldn't have been possible without my wonderful beta [ come_anyway (gaffertapeandhope) ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/come_anyway/profile). She is amazing! Particularly with the quick turnaround I gave her on this fic. 
> 
> Brit picked as best as I could. All mistakes are my own.


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